Self Delusion
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: John Watson wakes up in the hospital, they tell him he has been in a coma since he was shipped back from Afghanistan. They say he made the last four wonderful months spent in 221b up in his head. Are they lying, or are their motivations more sinister?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Notes: **This fic started out as a one shot posted on vomit_bunny's LJ page.

I thought it was an amazing idea and I told her so, she encouraged someone to write the sequel because she said she only had the oneshot, well my muse set up in a cloud of Honduran Cigar smoke and began to offer variations on that original tune.

The resulting fic has some of the best dialogue I have ever written and has a nice thread of tension throughout.

Remember this is vomit_bunny's idea I don't think she has a fanfiction account so if you wish to tell her how awesome this first chapter is you can visit her and leave a review here:

.#cutid1

Once again neither I nor vomit_bunny own Sherlock or any of their variation on ACD's original universe, you can thank Moffat/Gattis for that, and while you're at it thank Gatiss for his Mycroft.

thanks...enjoy!

**Bart**

* * *

**Self Delusion **

**Chapter One  
**

John opens his eyes and stares blearily at the ceiling. White, boring, institutional.

"-ohn?"

It takes him a moment to realise that someone is talking to him.

"What do you remember?"

He tries to turn his head towards the voice but his eyes have drifted shut before he manages to answer.

He watches the nurses as they fuss.

"What do you remember?" the doctor asks.

"I." He pauses and thinks for a moment. "There was an explosion."

"What do you remember?"

He giggles. "Boom!"

"It's okay, John, we're just adjusting your medication."

He wants to laugh at that but the sound seems to catch in his throat and it comes out as a sob instead.

"What do you remember?"

"An explosion."

"Okay," the doctor replies, making a note on his chart.

"Where's Sherlock?"

"Who?"

"My friend. Sherlock Holmes. He was with me! Is he okay?"

"You need to calm down, John."

There's a doctor, or at least a man in a white coat, standing over him, adjusting an IV, when he wakes. His IV he realises after a moment.

"Hello, John," the doctor says, his accent pure Oxbridge. "What do you remember?"

He thinks. "Um."

"It's alright."

"I, what. What happened?"

"You were caught in an explosion. Minor burns and abrasions for the most part, but you took some shrapnel to your back and neck, a piece of it fractured the base of your skull."

He lets out rush of air and tries to process the information.

"Are you alright, John?"

Something at the back of his mind demands attention. "Where's Sherlock?"

"What do you remember?"

"Where am I?"

"You're safe, John."

"Where am I?" he asks more insistently, trying to push himself up from the bed.

"You're at Selly Oak," the doctor replies, easily pushing him back down onto the bed.

"Birmingham? Why?"

"There was an IED, John. Do you remember?"

"I remember an explosion."

"And?"

"We've had this conversation before?"

"Several times," the doctor explains. "Confusion is very common with this type of head injury."

"I know," John replies frustratedly. He shuts his eyes and takes a calming breath. "I'm sorry."

"I understand."

"No, I really don't think you do."

"Do you remember asking about Sherlock Holmes?"

He doesn't, but that's not important. "Is he alright?"

"John," the doctor begins carefully. "Who do you think Sherlock Holmes is?"

"He's my friend," he answers, trying to pick through a jumble of memories. "He was with me when the bomb went off."

"No one else on your team was hurt, but-"

"Team, what team? What are you talking about?"

"I need you to calm down, John. We had to sedate you last time."

John stares at the wall. His room is utterly devoid of anything of interest; even the blinds are constantly kept shut, not that he thinks a view of Birmingham would really improve things. He stares at the wall and tries to connect all the pieces in his head.

He looks up when the door opens and catches a glimpse of stark white corridor beyond his room before he focuses on his visitor. She's new and everything about her screams psychologist.

"Hello, John. I'm Dr Mathews."

"Hello."

"I hear you've been feeling confused, John."

"I'm not confused."

"John," she repeats, trying to build a rapport by stressing his name, he thinks. "Can you tell me about Sherlock Holmes?"

"What would you like to know?" he asks, a little confused, not that he'll admit it, that his psychologist wants to talk about Sherlock.

"Did you meet him in Afghanistan?"

He frowns. "Of course I didn't."

She smiles at that, encouraging.

"I met him when I got back."

The smile doesn't slip exactly, but it does strain around the edges.

"We share a flat," he adds.

"Two hundred and twenty one, B, Baker Street?"

He forces a tight smile. "Yes."

"Tell me, John, have you ever read anything by Arthur Conan Doyle?"

"What? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Would it surprise you to know that Sherlock Holmes is a character created by Doyle?"

"Would it surprise me to learn that my best friend is fictional?" he retorts sarcastically. "You know, it probably would."

"I'm not trying to upset you, John."

She has a book with her when she comes back, puts it on the bedside table but doesn't mention it as they talk about Afghanistan and what he remembers or what he thinks he can remember. He can read the cover, though, A Study in Scarlet.

"Would you like a look?" she asks after his eyes flick to it for what feels like the hundredth time.

He reads the first page, the first paragraph and shuts the book, looking at her incredulously. "Am I not real either?"

"John Watson is a fairly common name," she points out reasonably.

He throws the book across the room when Dr Mathews leaves, angry and ashamed, as if reading it is capitulation of some sort. It hits the wall with a loud thump and fall to the ground, pages open, spine bent.

He ignores it for the rest of the day, focusing on the comings and goings of the hospital personnel, instead. He can only remember, not that that's worth much at the moment, three members of staff, well four with his psychologist. It's still the oddest shift rotation he's seen.

He eventually asks one of the nurses to fetch the book for him. She babbles excitedly when she sees the cover, she's a huge fan, used to read them as a child, and has he got a favourite? John didn't even know there were others.

He reads A Study in Scarlet, it's really just a nineteenth century version of A Study in Pink with a story about Mormons tacked on. Nothing someone couldn't fabricate from reading his blog, okay there are parts where the author would have needed to have seen inside their flat or have eavesdropped on their conversations but it's not beyond the realms of possibility. John holds onto the idea with all his worth.

"I need to borrow your laptop," is the first thing he says when Dr Mathews comes back.

She doesn't argue, just hands him the computer and talks him through connecting to the wi-fi. Part of him is disappointed, he'd hoped she wouldn't let him, that she'd argue.

His blog and Sherlock's web page don't seem to exist. "That's not right." He feels muddled, and scratches distractedly at the IV port on his hand. He tries typing Sherlock Holmes into google. The first result is a wikipedia page about a fictional detective and he gives up and closes the laptop.

He feels sick.

"John?"

"I don't see why I should believe you," he manages to say. "I don't really have much of an incentive, if you're right I'm mad."

"I don't think you're mad, John. I think you went through a traumatic experience, both physically and mentally, and your mind created somewhere safe for you while you recovered."

He wants to laugh at that, because safe is the last word he would use to describe his life with Sherlock, but he holds back, a little afraid it'll come out closer to hysteria.

"But you need to let it go now."

It's all so completely reasonable that he feels a bit guilty when he insists that she leave.

"Really, John," she says the next day, and the way she uses his name still grates, "I'm not your enemy. There is no grand conspiracy."

"I know," he replies tiredly. Sometimes he dreams that they come for him: Lestrade or Mycroft, once, memorably, Mrs Hudson, but most often it's Sherlock. Nearly always Sherlock, in fact, who strides in as if he owns the place and explains away all of John's confusion so easily, a neat little solution to terribly complex problem.

"It's not real, John."

He turns on his side and closes his eyes at that, ignoring her until she leaves. He's a coward, he realises as he listens to her talk to his doctor about increasing his medication, but he doesn't care.

He opens his eyes and stares blearily at the ceiling. It's white, boring, and institutional.

"John," someone prompts.

"I'm sorry," he starts, turning his head and frowning in confusion. "I can't remember your name."

The doctor smiles. "Don't worry," he says. "It's Moran. Dr Sebastian Moran."


	2. Chapter 2

**Self Delusion**

**Chapter Two**

John tries to relax.

He's been in this bed far too much.

Every time he shifts he feels like his muscles are screaming from the uric acid build up.

Doctor Moran comes in once again for the daily check up; he's a grandfatherly chap who bothers John with a far too familiar bed side manner.

Oh it's not that John thinks he's a ponce, it's just that since he spent time with Sherlock, insincerity has become one of his pet peeves.

Sherlock...fiction...a man who never lived or existed except in John's mind...he just could not conceive of it...there was no imagination capable of creating such a man. Out of all the realms of possibility, Sherlock never existing was the most far-fetched to John.

A man like that SHOULD exist...the universe cried out for such a man to be walking about...

Matthews is accompanying him this time, they have been collaborating more often as of late.

"You're thinking about him again, aren't you John?" Matthews inquired with that saccharine sympathy that caused John's hands crawl absentmindedly for something to throw at her.

"What of it? Even if he doesn't exist, he was my best friend as far as I knew delusion or not, I have to go through a sort of grieving process, don't I?"

"Of course," Moran replies giving John a fond pat on the knee.

Moran quietly checks his chart as Matthews questions him once again on what he remembers, and does her usual song and dance about his letting go of this fantasy...they both exchange looks after John crosses his arms and stubbornly refuses further conversation.

Done for the day.

John waits until the man was nearly to the door before calling out. "I need to get out of this bed as soon as I can manage it, my muscles are atrophying...do we have a pool here that I can float in and develop some muscle mass?"

Moran made a manoeuvre when he turned back to John that caused him alarm.

_That was an about face, nobody spins on their heel like that unless they have been in the military service, but why wouldn't he tell me he's a veteran himself, why is he playing civilian? Selly Oak is a Vet hospital, and military doctors would be common enough but why wouldn't he reference something that would give us a basis for conversation? Unless..._

"We don't have a pool, and your leg cannot take the pressure of walking just yet, we will see about maybe getting a physical therapist in here for you, at the moment that has to suffice," Moran informed with that same paternal smile.

"Of course, you are the doctor," John called.

Moran smile faltered almost imperceptibly. "Yes, John, I am the doctor, just get some rest, I'll take care of the rest,"

Matthews nodded agreement. "Get some rest, we'll talk some more tomorrow."

John nodded, and they left with no further preamble.

As soon as he was gone, John began to search the room with his eyes, using the quadrant method that he had picked up in Afghanistan while searching for possible IED's he was looking for something specific. If Moran was truly a Military man then he would want to keep an eye on his target at all times to see if his propaganda was working.  
_  
Besides the blighter lied...Selly Oak has a pool for water therapy for amputees and the like...I visited a mate here once...if I am indeed in Birmingham after all..._

John picked up the book and acted like he was perusing it, but his eyes swept the shelves, there next to the telly he saw what he was looking for.

It was a sparkle of reflected light from a lens inside the right side speaker.

"There's the bugger," he murmured.

He had to make a choice, did he believe it was all fiction, or did he choose to believe.

When he came back from overseas he was a broken man, with no prospects and no idea how to get on with things, Sherlock was a whirlwind of purpose, of desire, a man who did not allow the world to shape him but wanted to place his mark upon it. He gave John a cause, a responsibility, and in his own way, companionship and a friend. It might be madness but John was not going to give that up without a fight.

He knew what they told him about his condition, so he began to as casually as possible check over his own body.

The fractured skull was the first thing he checked because it was the more grievous wound. He felt a tender place under healed skin at the base of his skull just like they said, however, the wound was not jagged like it was supposed to be, he had sewed up thousands of shrapnel wounds from ordinance and had never encountered one this neat.

This would had to have been produced by something less military, maybe debris from flying timbers, he had seen those many times and catching a flying board tore the flesh less than bomb metal.

There would have been timbers around the poolside from the changing cabins.

He felt a twinge of excitement.

He hid his elation with a yawn and a stretch of his uninjured shoulder, he rolled over onto his side away from the camera, with ability borne from repetition he pulled the IV out of the port on the back of his wrist and inserted into the mattress.

Whatever they were drugging him with, he needed a clear head.

_How did they fake this book, and the website, and the Quest search, why go to all this trouble? _

He heard a familiar voice in his head. "Don't be an idiot, John, think, take the most obvious answer and work your way back to the truth. I don't want to do everything for you, you know. It gets boring and tedious."

John found that he was smiling at the memory. If it was fiction he would rather be mad.

If you wanted to hold a prisoner for an extended period of time without having to resort to chaining him up, or shackling him for the duration, especially someone with life threatening injuries, then convincing him that you are the only world he can live in would be a start.

_But...why? Why go to all this elaboration? Just for me?_

John's eyes had slipped close while he was in deep thought, they snapped open.

_This isn't for me, this must be for Sherlock. They needed to control him, get him off the scent, and force him to leave certain cases alone while avoiding suspicion. Holding his only friend hostage would be an effective tool. Who would be so diabolical?_

The hateful dark eyed face came to his mind.

_Moriarty!_

"John? It's time for lunch; you need to wake up now."

One of the few nurses he has seen so far comes into the room; he hurriedly reinserted his IV, then turns to her.

"I hope the cuisine has improved since breakfast.

She smiled flashing pretty little dimples. "I'm sorry."

He gave her his most charming smile back. "You're not the cook."

She tidied up a bit after placing the food on a tray and sliding it into place then raising his bed.

She tried to be unobtrusive, but John saw that she kept an eye on the silverware; John had been in too much of a haze before to realize just how micromanaged he was. No patient required this much scrutiny, but a prisoner might.

Rather than show signs that he was becoming more lucid he showed trouble operating the utensils, making a bit of a mess, grimacing and apologizing in his most pitiful manner.

She did not seem to be alarmed by his lack of acumen, as a medico, John knew if she were a real nurse that she would be concerned by his lack of coordination, and have his medicine lowered significantly.

After she cleaned up and left, he reached out and flipped through the book some more, he knew they were watching, and that they most likely sent some sort of edited feed to Sherlock, he had to find a way to show his former flatmate that he was aware.

He shifted in the bed, he held his right leg and winced making a small expression which he hoped was undetectable, then rolled over to feign sleep again while once again allowing the IV to drip into the mattress.

Whatever happened he needed to be ready.

~-o0o-~

Sherlock wondered around the apartment, never too far from the computer that he could not hear the IM chime, boredom was not his chief concern, not now.

He was pulled out of the rubble and in the hospital three days before he awoke, Lestrade was there to give him the news.

_"Sherlock, was John with you?"_

_"Of course he was with me you imbecile! Where else would he be?"_

_"That is the question, innit?"_

That was the beginning of the nightmare.

The first email clip came the day Holmes sighed himself out of the hospital AMA and made his way back to the flat, limping on the leg that bore the brunt of the explosion.

John had grabbed him and pulled him into a spin away from the blast and into the pool; Watson had caught the brunt of the blast but the concussion knocked Sherlock cold.

He could only speculate at the injuries his partner incurred.

However, the first clip had shown John in a hospital bed with his head swathed with bandages.

The persons involved sent him John's medical charts, and an instruction.

_"When we tell you to stay away, stay away, he will receive the best care possible, or he will wind up in a shallow grave, the choice is yours. _

It was signed  
_M_

Since that time, Holmes had received periodic updates that caused him to climb the walls.

Once John regained consciousness the mental manipulation began. The clips contained audio of the lies they were telling the man and they were appallingly proficient.

They even gave him a doctored Wi-Fi which probably had a server ghost that sent all queries to alternative websites that furthered the lies.

It was all stunningly brilliant, and day by day Holmes had to watch as the only friend he had ever known was convinced chemically and mentally that their life together had been a lie.

Sherlock had taken the cases offered to him but they only offered temporary distraction, He kept calling out details for John to write down in his pad, kept looking up to see if his stalwart companion was standing there with that exasperated but half amused look on his face.

He had always worked alone and now he felt like an amputee.

Hacking into just about every system he could, he still had yet to find the trail of the emails, but he had to be careful because if they knew he was looking John would get something new in his IV.

He had been warned off of a case just last week, and as much as it galled him he acquiesced.

Lestrade knew something was wrong, and he had clandestinely offered to help if there was anything he could do, but Holmes turned his offer down, there was not enough subtlety in the Yard's movements, they would get John killed.

Moriarty was as good as his word, he was burning the heart right out of Sherlock, and there was nothing the man could do about it...YET!

DING

He rushed over to the computer.

There was another clip of John, the pain of seeing the man he was missing and knowing he was surrounded by enemies and unaware once again tore at Sherlock's mind like a rabid wolverine.

A low moan of helplessness escaped his lips as he watched them once again coerce John into giving up his life at 221b.

He wanted to look away but he could not...he was willing the man to figure it out...he would never tell John so, but John was the second most perceptive man he had ever met outside of his brother, and as such he was hoping that John would see through the charade.

Suddenly he saw John do something that brought a smile to his face.

John winced grabbing the once psychosomatic wounded leg...and there was a flicker of a smile on his face, one that Sherlock had seen more than once when they were making fun of the police officers at a crime scene under their noses.

_He knows! _

He did an awkward dance laughing as his still stiff leg gave him a twinge.


	3. Chapter 3

**Self Delusion**

**Chapter Three**

Sherlock redoubled his search for John.

Those names that were given by the two doctors had not turned up in internet searches, or his more clandestine sources...so he assumed them aliases.

His instincts told him that Mathews was the puppet, there were moments during the "sessions" where she was glance at Moran for a direction, he would give an indication, a scratch of the nose, a twirl of the pen in the fingers, a shift of John's chart, there was no sign in the eye, or in sub audible micro-expressions, the act was very subtle.

Too subtle...far too rehearsed...professional.

John found little ways to show Sherlock that he was still figuring his situation out, that he had not given up.

Inside jokes between them showed up in dialogue, but in subtle ways that took Sherlock multiple viewings to decipher.

He looked down at the green jelly on his tray, "this is bloody useless...no nutritional value, really, it's hard to eat without dropping a cube down your lap, one suck and it's gone...whomever thought this would make a good dessert should be drug out, hung then shot!"

Sherlock smiled at the memory and mouthed the next quip along with his distant flatmate...

"Or a more fitting punishment drowned in a vat o' the stuff."

John even added in the same dismissive gesture with the fork that he had the day he had first given the speech.

Sherlock was surprised at how much memories could hurt. While he appreciated that John was communicating with him under their noses...every little moment that was drudged up from the morass of memory felt like a new stab to his heart.

He put out word to his street connections offering a small fortune, then he redoubled the offer looking for information, however he added a caveat that if any word got back to Moriarty's organization and any harm came to John, he would never use the network again.

It was no idle threat considering that most relied upon a quid or two from his hand for survival. It was a cruelty to make the threat but he could not endanger John by a question in the wrong ear.

Nothing turned up.

He checked medical supply channels, using various alias, looking for equipment to a private source, there were expensive pieces of equipment in that room whose purchase would have left some sign, the problem was that an organization as complicated and vast as the one in which John was grasped would have their own medical facilities, which is why Moriarty never showed up at a hospital after the explosion, if indeed the malignant little man was still alive.

Holmes felt it in his very marrow that he was.

With someone as brilliantly dangerous as Moriarty, you would have to see a body to be sure, as a matter of fact unless you killed the man with your own hands and felt the life ebb under your own ministrations...you could never be certain...Sherlock flexed his fingers silently vowing that one day he would do just that.

Suddenly the dangerous game changed...John might have been in their custody, but they did not have as much control over the crafty veteran as they thought...

~-o0o-~

John had been racking his brain trying to figure out where he had seen these techniques used before.

When it came to interrogation there were two schools of thought.

One...break the subject down through pain, deprivation, or isolation...that route took savagery and inhumanity, and sometimes strengthened resolve and was ineffective to the strong willed.

Eventually the subject would break as all men would after a while but you run the risk of so much damage you cannot glean anything useful.

The second route was the one John was travelling on, and it was far more insidious.

You remove a person from his reality, strip away all of his sense of self identity, or affiliation and make them dependant on you for everything, make them believe your truth, your world until they see you as their only recourse.

It was complicated, and time consuming but as the old saying went, you catch far more bees and all that.

It was also expensive involving some subtle chemistry that was not cheap, and top notch techniques that only specialist knew. John was being handled very well...almost too well.

When John was in officer training, they had gone through interrogations, both kinds; the camps were run by members of one of the most dangerous branches of military in the world.

British SAS.

He had quipped to Sherlock that he had met members of the Secret Service before, just hours before their separation...he was being reticent, he had more than met members of that branch, he had trained with them and under them, and had them embedded in some of his teams overseas.

He was firmly convinced that the men produced by that secretive group were not entirely sane once they survived long enough to be enrolled.

If his hunch was correct, this Doctor Moran was such a man, why he was working for Moriarty...John's speculations all led down dark pathways.

As a victim of his own country's callused duplicity, he was not immune to speculation about how Moriarty had so many ex-military snipers in his employ.

Matthews was patiently trying once again to strip him of his "delusion" with Moran shadowing her nearby, his light brown, nearly yellow eyes studying John with a careful subtlety.

John decided it was time to "break" and give them some of what they wanted so they would keep him around a bit longer.

"So you said my team hit an IED?" he ventured interrupting her speech about the subtleties of recovering memory.

She blinked at the change in topic but recovered well, he had to admire her skill and acting.

"Yes, John, there was an explosion and you were hurt."

John rubbed his temples like he was fighting off a sudden headache. "Did...d-did any more of my team get out? Did they have time for a...a SA...erm...SOS?"

She beamed. "Yes John, the rest of your Team is fine, you were the only one grievously wounded. Your orderly Murray was able to stop the bleeding..."

She was using bits of the actual event but altering them in a casual way to go down a new avenue, she was good at her job...but not good enough.

John gave her a tentative smile.

_The message has been passed_.

"I am so glad the lads are alright," he said lying back against the pillows showing the weariness he was feeling.

"I think that is enough for one day." Moran commented, nodding towards the door. Matthews nodded and gave John's shoulder a squeeze showing how proud she was of him.

He gave her a wan smile back and closed his eyes, resting his head against the pillows, on his side away from the telly and its extra eye.

_Come on, Sherlock, you arrogant bastard, make the connection..._

~-o0o-~

Sherlock slammed the lid down on the laptop. He rubbed his tired eyes, the message that John was conveying echoed in his mind.

"British SAS, Moran is SAS, his name wiped from all public databases. I was looking in the wrong direction!" Sherlock murmured, "It's so obvious now! How could I be so stupid?"

He wandered the empty flat castigating his density, making laps in the cluttered sitting room, ruffling his hair, his colossal brain sorting all of the implications.

The realization he came to stole his breath.

He collapsed onto the sofa like a folding chair.

His numb fingers found the phone and with a press of the speed dial the call was made.

"The usual spot," he said after the phone line picked up, "It's time you made yourself useful."

~-o0o-~

John awoke.

He felt something different.

There was a presence in the room, something subtle that made his hair stand on end.

He hastily went to reinsert his IV but it was no longer there.

He rolled over to see a man seated at his bed side, he was completely motionless but the dark malevolent eyes were studying him with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

"Hullo John, the charade is over, I think it is time you and Daddy had a chat."

Jim Moriarty smiled at him, but it was an expression his eyes did not share.

It would appear John Watson's time had run out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Self Delusion**

**Conclusion**

John had a moment to decide how he was going to respond, he decided that since his death was close at hand, that he was going to see just how much cheek he could get away with before the fatal blow.

"It's about damned time," he complained, "if I had to put up with more of the Bobbsey Twins I think I was going to go mad, I mean what is it with all of the M names in your organization anyway?

Matthews, Moran, Moriarty, do you have a Montrose or a Masterson somewhere?

And can I get a last meal, any bloody thing but jelly please!"

Moriarty laughed, it was a pleasant sound but it still made John's hackles rise.

"You really are quite amusing," Moriarty said remarked with a chuckle, "I'm still going to make your death spectacularly gruesome."

"Can we just go with gruesome?" John replied with his most charming smile.

Moriarty sighed and rolled his eyes. "I suppose, then again, I do so like to savour the moment."

"So record it, that way you have it for posterity," John responded in his most helpful tone.

Moriarty shrugged. "I do that regardless, as a matter of fact I intend on sending the CCTV footage to 221b Baker Street, so your friend can enjoy the moment.

John sat up and threw his legs over the side; he was tensing to cross the distance when Moriarty cheerfully pointed out the red dot on his chest, the source was what looked like a ventilation shaft, revealing that he probably had guns on him all along.

"Tut, tut, John, and we were having such a pleasant conversation," he chided.

"I think wrapping my fingers around your scrawny neck and squeezing would be more productive," John responded.

Moriarty seemed to give it some consideration. "I'm sorry, I fail to see how that would be conducive to the proceedings, I'll have to veto that thought, strangulation is on the table, but not for me I'm afraid."

John snapped his fingers as if he was gravely disappointed.

"You know, John, this does not have to be cause for hostility," Moriarty complained.

"That might have been more convincing before you forced me to wear a jacket with four bricks of Syntex attached," John pointed out.

Moriarty shrugged with a half smile and he remarked, "Perhaps, if you want to hold a grudge, what can I do?"

"Oh, drop dead of some dastardly painful illness, I have several suggestions, a hydrochloric acid enema comes to mind..."

"Hydrochloric Acid enema," Moriarty mused.

"Forget I mentioned that," John said with a wince.

Moriarty shifted in his seat, with a small pained sound, he had a cane with him.

"Looks like you didn't get out entirely unscathed," John remarked with a pleasant smile.

Moriarty gave him a cold eye stare. "I've suffered far worse; I'll be completely healed by the end of the month."

"Pity," John remarked.

"I was under the impression that as a doctor you're not supposed to glory in someone else's misfortune?" Moriarty stated as he settled in the new position.

John showed he was unrepentant. "When someone has been the cause of so much pain for others, I'm allowed to feel some glee without my conscious bothering me overmuch."

"That's understandable," Moriarty replied.

John stared at the smaller man with distaste. "Wait, if you 're agreeing with me then there has to be a flaw in my logic somewhere."

Moriarty responded with an insouciant shoulder shrug.

"I take it even your paltry intellect can guess what happens next?"

John smirked. "Oh let me see... I'm to be subjected to more narcissistic rants about your superiority to my flatmate, and then you're going to make me an offer I can't refuse, can we forgo all the whiny little insinuations and go straight to the offer...so I can tell you to sod off?"

Moriarty actually chuckled. "I have often wondered why he keeps company with someone as jejune as you, but I am starting to see that you have a certain imbecilic charm."

"Give me some shallots a good grade of cheddar and I can also make you an egg white omelette to die for," John remarked with a grin.

"Maybe later, before you die horribly," Moriarty reminded him.

John watched the self-possessed younger man with a wry expression. "You know I had a decent therapist when I was discharged, she would probably have you put down as rabid, but if you'd like a chat with someone who is a real psychologist and not a fake, I think I still have a card..."

Moriarty was watching John with clinical detachment. "You have absolutely no fear response do you? That is what tipped me off that the ruse was up."

John suddenly felt curious despite himself. "Oh?"

Moriarty nodded. "Yes...when you first awoke and was disoriented you had a tremor in your extremities, but I can pinpoint the moment that you realized this was a mouse trap and you were the rodent by how steady your nerves became."

John shrugged as if that was old news.

"Now see, your fate is not entirely sealed, Doctor Watson, like I said before I am changeable, why would I bother with this chat otherwise if I was just going to merely put you into the ground?"

"The mental processes of the psychopathic are lost on me, I'm afraid," John lamented with a shrug.

Moriarty's expressive face made a strangely compelling contortion even though the cold eyes never warmed.

"Awww, John, you keep saying such things and I'll think we're not friends."

"I'd rather make friends with a school of Piranha while swimming in the Amazon with a punctured Femoral Artery, now what is it you really want?"

Moriarty actually grinned, such an alien expression that John was taken aback, the man really was not very stable, undeniably brilliant, and subtle but sanity had left the building long ago, if indeed it had ever been in residence, John was beginning to doubt.

"I have to say you are endlessly amusing, Doctor Watson, I'm sorry we never chatted before..."

"Well if you would stop trying to kill me, I might be less opposed," John remarked with a smile.

"I hoped that we could move past that, open up a dialogue," Moriarty replied, "I'm really not a bad guy once you get to know me."

John sighed. "You are the most unrepentantly evil person I have ever met, and I was in Afghanistan with the UN peace keeping forces..."

Moriarty mocked being wounded. "Ouch."

"Once again, just tell me what you want so I can tell you which orifice to stick it in, and we can get on with the bleeding and screaming... " John said with a yawn.

"You really have no fear of what I will do to you?" Moriarty inquired, those alien eyes showing interest.

John sighed and rolled his eyes at the man's density. "Do I look concerned?"

"You know, if you die because your partner would not back down, he will indeed be a broken man, I will have made good on my promise," Moriarty stated studying John's face.

"I doubt my death will "burn the heart right out of him," John responded with as much derision as he could pack into his tone.

Moriarty laughed. "Now whose being naive," his face shut down as he continued, "you are his heart."

Those words chilled John to his core, but he did his best not to show how it had affected him.

"Ah, the man finally gets it," Moriarty remarked.

He stood and straightened out the suit, leaning heavily on the cane. "You are most fortunate, Doctor, someone has intervened on your behalf that even I dare not cross, I must say that this chat has been most enlightening, however our next meeting will not be as pleasant."

John shot him an incredulous look. "Who said that this was pleasant?"

Moriarty leaned on the cane like some urban vulture. "All that is left is to decide whether or not you would rather be knocked unconscious by chemical means or by a blow to the head."

"I've always been partial to anaesthetic," John responded.

"Blow to the head it is," Moriarty replied with an evil smile and a motion to the door.

"Damn...I hate that guy!" John murmured just before the fist collided with his temple.

~-o0o-~

John opened his eyes and stared blearily at the ceiling.

White, boring, institutional.

_What now?_

"Ah I see you are awake..."

The voice was dripping with arrogance and sophistication, and bother...

"Hello, Mycroft," John stated as he raised the bed to an upright position to stare at the bureaucrat.

Mycroft Holmes sat there with his trademark bumbershoot across his legs.

"We brought you here to have you checked out, but I thought we should have a bit of a...chat before you leave for...home," Mycroft responded after a quick check of his mobile and a rolled eye.

"Sherlock has been texting?" John inquired with a grin.

"Incessantly," Mycroft replied with a text book Holmes eye roll.

"So this is the part where you tell me that I am not to say anything about your connection with Moriarty?" John inquired after a moment passed unremarked.

Mycroft held up a finger. "What connection with Moriarty?"

John had to chuckle wearily; he had seen it all before. "So that is how we are playing this game?"

To his surprise the elder Holmes sighed. "Moriarty is an asset we have used from time to time, nothing happens in the London Underworld that he is not aware, or involved. He has helped us prevent more than one catastrophe in the course of our limited association..."

"And in the return you turn a blind eye to his activities while he wreaks havoc on the innocent?" John finished.

Mycroft had the decency to look guilty. "This is a new world, Watson, the Twin Towers no longer stand, the Underground has already been bombed, we have no eyes where these terrorist move when they infiltrate our city, it is a necessary evil, you have my word that I never meant to involve Sherlock in any of this."

John felt no sympathy for the man. "You knew that Moriarty and Sherlock were going to collide eventually, you saw how similar they are, different poles of a magnet are going to attract. It was always inevitable..."

"Of course I knew," Mycroft bellowed, "why do you think I wanted eyes on Sherlock? Why do you think I intervened on your behalf?"

"They are going to try to kill each other, Mycroft, and from what I've just seen they are evenly matched, if anything Moriarty has the higher ground at the moment," John said in a softer tone to calm the man down.

Mycroft ran a hand down his face, he looked weary. "I have always looked after Sherlock. I've always made the hard decisions, some of which have estranged me from him, when the irony is that I made those choices for his sake...Moriarty exists on my obeisance, but if I were to take him away from this city, just to protect Sherlock, he would self-destruct from boredom. Please tell me that I am mistaken."

It was John's turn to sigh. "You're not wrong. God, how I wish you were."

Mycroft and John's eyes met.

John held out a hand, it was shaken with no further preamble.

"There will be a car ready to take you home, you've got a nasty concussion, but they took good care of your body, and your injuries are well on their way to recovery." Mycroft said as he planted his bumbershoot on his way to the door.

"Sherlock was right," John said quietly.

Mycroft paused. "He often is, pray tell what about?"

"You are the most dangerous man I have ever met, Moriarty included," John responded.

Mycroft accepted those words with a tilt of his head. "For the sake of Queen and Country, you can believe it."

In the wake of his leaving, John sighed, feeling the lump on his temple, covered with a bandage. It was not as bad as it could have been.

A nurse came in and set out him some clothing, with a wry smile he recognized it as his own.

~-o0o-~

"Damn it Mycroft," Sherlock grumbled as yet another text was ignored.

He had been making laps around the flat, Mrs. Hudson had checked on him more than once, seeing his agitation chiding him, "Don't wear out my carpet dear, I'll have to add that to the rent."

Her voice broke and she had to cover her eyes for a moment. "I miss Doctor Watson, he was such a sweet man," she managed to say with a sniff.

"Is, Mrs Hudson, the operative word...Is."

She gave him the same pitying look that he had received from Scotland Yarders and anyone they had associated with. If Molly consoled him one more time he was going to use the riding crop on her.

"You keep on believing that, Sherlock, but when he gets back he's going to have your head anyway when he sees what you've done with the place," she said with a dismissive wave.

In her wake he glanced around, with a casual flick of a cut up paper into the overflowing rubbish bin he declared, "Sorted."

His tense conversation with Mycroft played in his mind.

~o0o~

He had showed the elder Holmes those clips he had been receiving on the new phone that he badgered Mycroft himself into buying on his behalf.

"Those interrogators are using SAS training, John tipped me to them; tell me, how did Moriarty come to employ agents from British Secret Service, Mycroft?"

Mycroft had scoffed. "You trust his word? They've been plying him with enough Sodium Pentothal to turn an elephant, and he is not qualified to make such an assessment!"

Sherlock had stepped into his brother, making sure their noses were millimetres apart so he would know how serious his little brother was being at the moment. "If you do not use your influence to intervene, and John dies, I will never give you another moment of my time, which includes taking a look at the intelligence intake even when you think an attack is imminent, or any other task for you or your office."

"You would turn your back on your country, on me?" Mycroft sputtered.

"England can burn to rubbish for all I care!" Sherlock had declared.

He grew quiet, which he could see drove his point home to a greater extent. "I know you have connections in the underworld, Mycroft, I know they fear you, I was not sure about Moriarty, I hoped I was wrong, but nothing happens in this city without your knowledge, and if Moriarty managed to steal secret service agents away, then that means he would have had to have contact or have been a participate himself to know their capability...the simplest explanation is best..."

"I need some concessions from you, that's the only way I can justify this action," Mycroft responded.

"Done," Sherlock agreed.

"Don't you want to know what those concessions are?" Mycroft inquired with a confused look in his eyes.

"If John comes home, I really don't care," Sherlock had responded as he turned and walked away.

~o0o~

If John was right, and Sherlock believed that he was, then John would be walking through that door shortly.

The door opened and he shot up from where he had been lounging on the sofa.

To his disappointment it was Mrs. Hudson looking apologetic.

"What is it, Mrs. Hudson?" he called in a long suffering tone.

"You have a visitor, Sherlock, I told him you were busy, but he won't go away until he's seen you."

Holmes sighed.

He waved his arm. "Send him in."

He heard the click of a cane on the timbers before he turned.

Standing there sheepishly, looking worse for wear was John Watson.

"So that's how you receive guests, no wonder we don't get more visitors!" he remarked with that old wry smile and a cocked eyebrow.

Sherlock leapt the high side of the sofa and was across before John could get his feet settled.

The hug was awkward but enthusiastic, a little too much so.

Sherlock backed away. "Did I do it wrong?"

John shrugged. "It was a little rough."

Holmes frowned. "Was the distance too far? Improper pressure applied? Details, John, I can't improve without pertinent data."

John limped over to his favourite chair and settled in closing his eyes a moment at the sensation then he remarked, "You need to move in closer, you might have arms that reach across the Channel but most of us poor blokes don't, and the pressure needs to be about five pounds per square inch less, what you 're doing now is more akin to a martial arts attack than affection."

Sherlock nodded gravely. "Duly noted."

"Ohhhhhh, look at the two of yooooouu," Mrs. Hudson cooed, "I'll let you two get reacquainted, just don't disturb the neighbours now, a little hanky-panky is a good thing, but remember, I've got renters."

John let out a longsuffering sigh as she left.

"So..." Sherlock remarked perched in the chair across precariously.

"So..."John responded.

"Dinner?"

"Starved," John admitted.

"There might be a snack in the fridge to hold you for a bit," Sherlock remarked, "I need to change."

With a rush and swirl of loose paper he was gone.

John look around at the state of their lodgings with a weary sigh, it was going to take weeks to get some semblance of order back.

He glowered at the skull on the mantel. "You were supposed to be watching him, Yorick!"

He placed the cane down and painfully got to his feet. With the still tender ribs and damage to his hip, that limp was not going to be psychosomatic for a while!

He made his way to the fridge fearing the contents. He opened it and immediately had to laugh.

Shelf after shelf was stacked with jelly cups.

**End**

* * *

**End Notes: **Thanks for reading!

Thanks to vomit_bunny for sharing this amazing idea!

Thanks to Moffat/Gatiss for breathing new life into the Sherlockverse.

Thanks to Martin Freeman, Cummerbatch, Andrew Scott and Gatiss himself for the amazing acting work!

ACD for inventing the two guys at the first!

**Bart**


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